


Suggestible

by sleepingirl



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bottom John, Canon-Typical Violence, Case Fic, Dom/sub, Dubious Consent, First Time, Friends to Lovers, Hypnotism, M/M, Mind Control, Sexual Tension, Spoilers for S01E01 A Study in Pink, Top Sherlock, more tags to be added as fic continues, please see notes for consent issues, set somewhere in season 1
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-06
Updated: 2019-02-06
Packaged: 2019-07-07 18:42:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,649
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15914046
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sleepingirl/pseuds/sleepingirl
Summary: “Couldn’t it have been, like, hypnosis or something?” The detective inspector scratches his head. “Like, if someone made him do it. Manchurian Candidate stuff?”Sherlock scowls suddenly.“What a load of -- Yes, and while we’re at it, let’s carefully consider the possibility of him being possessed by a demon, as well.”--Case fic with porn -- Sherlock has an annoying but useful hypnofetish, John is acting curiously, and there's been a third "suicide" in London which was probably not a suicide at all.(Please see notes for consent warnings.)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Under Control](https://archiveofourown.org/works/285347) by [rotaryphones](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rotaryphones/pseuds/rotaryphones). 



> I would like to first start off by saying that the guts to write this were hugely inspired by reading rotaryphones's amazing Sherlock hypnokink epic -- Under Control (https://archiveofourown.org/works/285347). Please give it a look!
> 
> Secondly, this fic will inevitably have some consent issues. Sherlock and John are NOT in any kind of kink community, and Sherlock is not very good at / not aware of the necessity of negotiating these sorts of activities with your partner(s). This will NOT be played for drama or trauma, nor will it be a teaching moment -- this is fantasy, and so it will all be rather sexy and eroticized that Sherlock can read John so well, etc etc. This is not how real life works; if you want to get into hypnosis (which I heartily recommend), please learn how to negotiate and communicate for a mutually enjoyable experience.
> 
> Please don't hesitate to reach out with any questions or comments, and enjoy the fic!

“Third one in a month,” Lestrade says solemnly, in greeting, already walking quickly ahead of him. “You know how it is. Second time’s a coincidence. Third time’s a pattern.”

 

“Looks like a suicide, is probably not a suicide,” Sherlock says, apathetic. “Haven’t we done this already?”

 

“We thought maybe it was a callback to the cabbie,” Lestrade acknowledges, “but this time with guns. No other prints but the victims’. None legally owned or acquired. Registry numbers scratched off, the works, perfect for some sort of terror attack. But as far as we know, the guns weren’t meant to kill anyone else.”

 

“ _ Didn’t _ kill anyone else.”

 

“Sorry?”

 

“The guns  _ didn’t _ kill anyone else.” Sherlock knows they’re about to round the corner on the newest body, picking up his pace a bit. “As far as you know. You don’t know what they were meant for.”

 

“Right, of course.” Lestrade seems a bit sheepish, or tired. “Alright, I’ve got us five minutes.”

 

And there’s the body of the victim: Richard Waite, white male, young adult, trendy clothes (purchased with care and fairly recently), thin but with some distinct muscle mass (new, enthusiastic gym member), cropped haircut (from the last month).

 

“I know it’s classic for a suicide, but his girlfriend and his family kept insisting that he’d never do something like this,” Lestrade says quietly. “That he was a happy man, pacifistic, et cetera.”

 

“He wouldn’t,” Sherlock muttered, finally bending down to look at the bullet wound through the temple. “He had no intention of dying, or rather, he wasn’t expecting to die. Carefully framed murder, or foul play suicide, then. Bravo, Lestrade; only took several faked suicides for the Yard to catch on of what they might look like.”

 

Waite was right-handed and indeed the bullet wound was shot through the right side of the skull. The fingers on the hand were still curled, tendons and bones stiff but not arranged.

 

“If someone else shot the gun, they went through a lot of trouble to make it look like Mr. Waite did it himself,” Sherlock says. “And they leave the gun so it’s clear to whoever finds the scene.”

 

With no prints but the victim. Do the victims seek out the guns, or are they delivered in some way? Are the victims truly the only ones touching the gun, or does someone watch and carefully clean other prints off of it?

 

The gun being left feels like more of a hint, a lead, than anything else; if foul play is involved as seems most likely, why leave such a huge source of questions and evidence?

 

And the biggest question, of course -- if the victim is the one pulling the trigger, how are they made to do it? With the cabbie, they felt their life was in danger if they didn’t flip the coin, so to speak, but putting a gun to one’s head is a last resort, a certain end, takes true desperation and determination.

 

Lestrade hums, and Sherlock realizes he’s been muttering aloud.

 

“Couldn’t it have been, like, hypnosis or something?” The detective inspector scratches his head. “Like, if someone made him do it. Manchurian Candidate stuff?”

 

Sherlock scowls suddenly.

 

“What a load of -- Yes, and while we’re at it, let’s carefully consider the possibility of him being possessed by a demon, as well,” he spits out, possibly with a bit too much vehemence. 

 

“Jesus, bad mood today?” Lestrade asks, usually patient but irritable from the stress of the case. “Go home for a bit, Sherlock. Think it over with that enormous brain of yours and come back tomorrow. Autopsy might have more by then.”

 

“He was killed by a bloody bullet through the head! There’s your autopsy report!” Sherlock says, frustrated, but he’s already turned around to walk back to the street.

 

\--

 

John’s not in the flat, which he laments as he walks in the door. He really does focus better, think better when John is with him. John isn’t necessary, but he is an overall positive influence.

 

But John is out with Harry, due to arrive back later this evening, and by the fact that they are still out, Sherlock knows that she is doing a decent job at staying sober, and at the very least, John won’t come home upset. Sherlock finds it inconvenient when other people are emotionally draining on him.

 

If John were here, he would say that he was far too short with Lestrade today, and Sherlock would sigh and either snap at him or wait for him to make a cup of tea and go over the case in the strange tranquility of the sitting room.

 

He sighs and sits on the sofa, folding his knees up to his chin, the case today floating in his mind.

 

The autopsy would actually clear a few things up, of course. Drugs were the first thing to come to mind, perhaps a date rape drug or something to disorient the victims, but the fact that none had been found before made their use unlikely. He’d ask Molly personally to see the bullet wound, to determine if the angle through the head made sense fired from the gun. He’d ask John, too.

 

He frowns, thinking of what Lestrade had suggested.

 

Sherlock hates hypnosis, always has; the ridiculousness of it and the tropes that always followed it, the idiotic history behind it, the fact that no one really had any idea how it worked, the assumption that it was magic or mind control.

 

...The way it makes him feel so many awful things to see a person flop stupidly over, eyes rolling, face going slack, all over a snap or a word or a touch.

 

Sherlock isn’t ignorant; he knows that arousal is a natural human thing, even over strange circumstances. Some people liked breasts, or feet, or nylons. He’s read so many accounts of anonymous strangers discussing their paraphilias online, and they were all the same -- discovery at a young age, shame, attempted avoidance, dependence or necessity for satisfaction.

 

But feeling desire like that was incredibly inconvenient for him. Sexuality wasn’t of much interest, just a distraction or a way to manipulate people, and to some degree perhaps it was a blessing of sorts that the one thing that truly got him going was an uncommon fetish.

 

As a teenager, it was complicated; he wasn’t immune to the process of going through puberty, having flashes of fantasies… Controlling his teacher with a snap; catching a pretty stranger with a carefully-timed suggestion; watching one of his brother’s friends try to resist falling into a trance, eyes wide, eyelids sinking slowly only to be wrenched back up, then failing finally and succumbing.

 

Sherlock approached it how he’d approach any problem -- voracious research.

 

Among his reading and watching, he’d picked up the skillset and discovered he was quite good at it. He was better than most at reading people, and his mind worked fast, adapting and thinking ahead. But the few strangers that he hypnotized (always strangers, always under a pseudonym, always in public) would always beam up at him innocently, impressed and amazed when they woke, while Sherlock would feel lascivious and excited.

 

Disappointing. Boring. He was aroused only by the physicality and motions of the thing. Something dreadfully important was always missing.

 

After that time, Sherlock found most awkward situations easy to avoid if he kept up the appearance that he thought hypnosis was rubbish.

 

The best lies, of course, were couched in truth; his distaste for hypnosis came from a very real place. What was missing, and what would always be missing, was that most tantalizing thing, more tempting than any stimulant: the ultimate manipulation. Mind control, which hypnosis would and could never be.

 

Lestrade was an idiot if he thought that hypnosis could make a man kill himself. 

 

Sherlock huffs and settles properly on the sofa, folds one leg over another, reaching for his cup of tea before remembering that John hasn’t actually made him one and isn’t actually home yet. He decides instead on rolling up his sleeve and carefully placing a nicotine patch on his arm, taken from the small drawer in the side of the coffee table.

 

His phone beeps -- speak of the Devil.

 

_ ‘Waite’s girlfriend said the last place he went was his favorite pub last night -- I’ll send you the address.’ _

 

Ah, very good. He and John would have a nice night out.

 

\--

 

John is surprisingly amenable to going undercover to the pub today -- as Sherlock had assumed, Harry was quite well-behaved and it had left John in a good mood, asking all sorts of questions about the case as they got ready to head out.

 

“Do we know  _ when _ he got the gun?” John asks, slipping on his loafers. 

 

“No,” says Sherlock. “His live-in girlfriend said she didn’t notice one anywhere in the flat or the car, but that doesn’t rule out that he had it before the night at the pub.”

 

John gives a wry grin. “Yeah, because only you are observant enough to monitor the position of everything in your flat.” It’s sarcastic, but gentle.

 

“Of course,” Sherlock says. “It took you a week to notice when I moved your old mail to the other side of the table.”

 

“That’s a normal thing flatmates do!” John exclaims, but he’s laughing. “Move each other’s stuff.”

 

“Always complacent,” he replies, chastising, but it’s a tease. He’s in a good mood too with John back, and there are a lot of things that could happen tonight; a lot of things to study and see. He throws on his coat and scarf and they walk out the door and down the stairs.

 

“So,” John says, “Three victims so far. All apparent suicides by gun. All guns probably from the same place, only with the victims’ prints on them. Probably no drugs. And if they were shot by the victims themselves, no idea how or why.”

 

Sherlock nods, tersely, fearing for a moment that John will echo Lestrade’s theory (which he of course left out of his summary of the case).

 

“Perhaps the victims were under pressure?” John offers. “Fearing a threat to their families or something? ‘Kill yourself, or I’ll kill everyone who matters to you,’ or something?”

 

Sherlock smiles broadly. “Good thinking, John. Very sensible.”

 

John looks a little confused but appears to take the compliment as they hail a taxi and enter it.

 

\--

 

It’s a very ordinary pub, although it’s more of a bar than a pub, with some loudly-speaking patrons sitting in various corners. A little bit rowdy, with dim lighting -- Sherlock notes that it would be easy enough to pass off a gun in the small alley outside the door or even in the restrooms, nestled in the back.

 

“Waite’s death hasn’t been made public yet,” he whispers to John. “We can ask around about him -- carefully -- and watch for reactions.” John nods.

 

“Might be worth chatting up the locals,” he says quietly back.

 

John strides up to the bartender with practiced ease, and Sherlock follows.

 

“Scotch, please, neat,” John says, very friendly.

 

The bartender nods and looks to Sherlock expectantly. He’s a tall and broad man, not overweight, short, dark hair, cropped beard. Button-down shirt, black, vest over it. He’d been working since they were opened today, since the shirt was crisp in some places and relaxed in the arms and waist. He cared enough about his job to keep his pants ironed, or his boss was a stickler for neatness -- which, based on the state of the rest of the bar, Sherlock doubted. Young adult, no girlfriend to speak of; needed the job to pay for rent.

 

“I’ll have a rum and Coke,” Sherlock says.

 

“No problem,” the man says, and pours them both a glass. John pays with cash and Sherlock takes the glasses and goes to sit at a table.

 

“Rum and Coke, huh?” John says with a grin.

 

“Oh, you can have mine,” Sherlock says, and surveys the room.

 

There’s a group of girls at a table across from them, four of them, same age as Waite, similar clothing style, and very, very drunk. Comfortable -- probably regulars. High chance that they were friends with him or at least crossed paths. By the merriment, they didn’t know -- and also, they weren’t in contact with his girlfriend.

 

“You think they knew him?” John asks, and it doesn’t surprise him. Sherlock nods.

 

“Going to take a wager,” he says, standing.

 

“Careful,” John says, but he’s standing too.

 

Sherlock walks over, holding his glass, smiling, John pretending to be disinterested and lingering behind him.   
  


“Hey there,” he says casually, and the girls turn to look at him, still giggling. “Is Richard coming out tonight?”

 

“I dunno,” says one girl -- made up, hair neat, skin-tight clothes and a blush; she clearly has a crush on him. “Haven’t heard anything.”

 

Another of the group titters over her.

 

“You wish, Ashley,” she jeers, but it’s not jealous or terribly mean. “Why, are you a friend of his or something?”

 

The girl is eyeing Sherlock and John with obvious distrust, even drunkenly -- they are far older than her and her friends.

 

Dark, wild hair (dyed), casual but fashionable club dress (well-off enough financially), phone kept tight in her jeans and constantly flashing notifications (a boyfriend -- probably several), short heels with inserts (used to partying out frequently).

 

“Friend of his brother,” Sherlock says, extending a hand. “Name’s Alex. Thought I’d see if he was around. Just a whim.” His sad smile was well-practiced, and the girl quickly switches her drink to her left hand so she can shake his.

 

“Melanie,” she says, grinning. “I might know how to get in touch with him… But I don’t give up info on Richard that easily. Ashley would have a fit.”

 

Ashley pouts and protests while her other friends tend to her, and Sherlock can feel John straighten up, wondering if it was a dangerous coincidence of words or a well-placed truth in plain sight.

 

Sherlock follows her lead, noting her cocked hip and the way she looks coquettishly up at him.

 

“I’m sure I can find some way to convince you,” he says, dropping his voice down.

 

Melanie laughs, breaking the tension of the moment.

 

“You’re great,” she says. “Got the Lasso of Truth hidden somewhere in that big coat, Alex? Gonna make me talk?” It’s a shameless, multi-layered flirt, and it’s too easy to take the bait.

 

It happens almost without Sherlock realizing he’s doing it, falling back into an easy pattern he once used in his early twenties to entertain himself at bars, to find people to practice on. He flashes her a confident smile.

 

“Maybe not with a lasso, but it just so happens that I’m a hypnotist.”

 

“No way!” she exclaims, the drink sloshing out of her glass -- unnoticed -- as she gesticulates.

 

John shoots him a look -- confusion, but not stupid enough to say anything, and he keeps the tight smile on his face as he nods at John and then at Melanie.

 

“Oh yes, and I’m quite good.” Flirtatious, maybe, but not a lie.

 

“Oh my God, you  _ have  _ to hypnotize me,” she insists. Ashley and Melanie’s other friends were howling with laughter, pushing her forward towards Sherlock.

 

“Alright,” he says, dramatically feigning defeat. “But if I do, you have to tell me about Richard.”

 

“Deal,” she responds, beaming at him. “What do I have to do?”

 

“Take my drink,” he says, and Melanie grasps it from him. “Now, put it on the table. Good, thank you.”

 

(Never been hypnotized before, only seen it from TV and movies, curious and open, follows instructions, made an easy leap between a comic book device and hypnosis -- )

 

“Just stand there, like that,” Sherlock murmurs, and suddenly her friends have hushed, following his lead and backing away to give them space.

 

It’s been a while, but hypnosis is so easy for Sherlock, easy as breathing, similar to observing -- using focus and rapport -- and rarely approaching those long monologues about relaxation. The girl is standing a comfortable distance away, body language open towards him, close enough to be flirting, inviting him into her space but not actually expecting him to step into it. He closes the gap between them with quick strides and the coy look on her face is vanished, replaced by unconscious surprise, and in one smooth motion he curls an arm around the back of her shoulders to steady her and brings a finger towards the center of her forehead. He can see that her eyes are trying to figure out where to follow, even in the few seconds that this is all happening, before he taps with his finger.   
  
“ _ Sleep, _ ” he says softly, loud enough for her to hear, and exactly as predicted, because of how he framed himself to her, because of her expectations about being hypnotized, her eyes flutter and she sags against him. He feels the familiar stirring of interest inside of him, heat pooling, reflexive, and suppressed.

 

Although his attention is carefully, meticulously focused on the girl falling lax into his arms, he’s intimately aware of all the eyes on them, the girlish, impressed gasps, and one familiar presence which stands out obscenely.

 

John is like a wailing beacon beside him, couldn’t be louder in his ears. Time seems to slow as he hears a minute, sharp intake of breath; shoes scuffing and clothes rustling as their wearer straightens abruptly; abnormal, generous silence from John’s lips, not even taking a second breath.

 

Sherlock knows immediately that if he turned to look, he would see something completely fascinating, even more fascinating than the boneless girl and her fluttering eyelids. The pull to turn his head is unbearably strong; he  _ must _ do it, and soon.

 

He runs the pad of his thumb over the girl’s eyebrows, softly, whispering, “That’s it, nicely deep down.” His mind whirls; it would look entirely normal if he flashed John a cheeky smile, silently bragging about a skill he had that John wasn’t aware of.

 

Sherlock has intense suspicions about what he’ll see when he raises his head.

 

John is standing there, stock-still, fists balled at his sides, face tinged with a blush, staring.

 

It’s no surprise, of course, but Sherlock is right.

 

John  _ likes  _ this.

 

John  _ wants  _ this.

 

The need to know more explodes in his mind, and the twinge of desire he felt before threatens to flare up and consume him. He’s never met another person like him before, never dared to do anything but lurk on the internet when he was a little younger, but now, right beside him...

 

They make eye contact, and John looks almost miserable -- strained and embarrassed, but he quickly smoothes out his face and gives a shaky smile and raised eyebrows.

 

Oh, John Watson... Would he ever cease to be so terribly interesting? 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading the first chapter! Please let me know if you have any comments or questions or anything at all! Your words feed my soul!
> 
> I've never written something so involved before, but it's very exciting and fun to do a mystery like this. To some degree, this is a very personal fic -- Sherlock and John are both sort of parts of me, since I'm a hypnokinky switch, and the hypnosis is very real; I'm hoping to make it more representative of the erotic hypnosis that I do with my partners.
> 
> If you are 18+ (which you should be if you are reading this), please feel free to follow me on Tumblr where I post erotic mind control fiction and stuff about my kinky life at http://h-sleepingirl.tumblr.com. I also host an 18+ podcast about erotic hypnosis with my partner where we drink, talk shop on hypnosis, and do trance in every episode -- check us out if you'd like to learn more at http://twohypchicks.simplecast.fm


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock doesn’t do anything spectacular with Melanie, just sticking her hands together and rooting her feet to the floor, watching amusedly while she tries to move, enjoying her look of bewilderment and her friends’ laughter. He thinks about John, who he’s graciously not looked at since meeting his eyes earlier, and who is probably wishing desperately for this to be over or searching for a way to get out.

 

It’s over quickly enough, and although Sherlock has a slight urge to request the information from her while she’s still tranced out and bound (Lasso of Truth, his arse), the flirtatiousness of everything will be over once he gets whatever “information” she had, and there’s no need to string the girl along further. Sherlock is relatively certain at this point that she doesn’t have anything on him anyways; probably his phone number.

 

Melanie comes back up with a sunny smile, looking a little dazed.

 

“Wow,” she says, and Sherlock resists the urge to roll his eyes, “It’s not like I didn’t believe in hypnosis, it’s just -- it’s so different than I expected!”

 

“Yes,” he says curtly, then smoothes out his tone. “It’s quite misunderstood. I’m glad you enjoyed it.”

 

“You win, I guess.” Melanie keeps grinning. “Here, give me your phone.”

 

As he suspected, the cell number of the deceased. Waite’s phone is already in police custody, but perhaps...

 

“I don’t let --” (Don’t say strange, don’t say ordinary) “-- other people handle my phone.”

 

Melanie frowns. “You sod, let me come on, yeah? I’m trying to be smooth and give you my number, too.”

 

Ah.

 

“Well, you can tell it to me,” Sherlock concedes, and Melanie’s friends cackle in the background.

 

“Fine, fine. Are all hypnotists this weird?”

 

He can’t help but smile a bit at that.

 

As the ritual of number exchange finishes, he finally turns his attention back to John, who’s got his hand in his pocket and is shifting uncomfortably. Sherlock raises his eyebrows slightly -- ‘Shall we?’ -- and John gives a nod.

 

“Thank you,” he says to Melanie. “It was nice to meet you.”

 

“You too, Alex,” she replies, twirling a bit of her hair in her finger. “If you see Richard, give him my best!” 

 

He gives her one last smile, and waves to Ashley and the other girls, and he herds John away, back to the bar.

 

“We’re leaving?” John says, taken aback. “Haven’t really looked around that much…”

 

“We’ll come back,” Sherlock murmurs, and there’s a flash over John’s face that says he really doesn’t fancy that idea.

 

They bring their glasses (empty in John’s case, half-full in Sherlock’s) back up to the bar, and exit to hail a cab.

 

“Dead end,” John says. “The number of a dead man’s cell phone doesn’t do us much good.”

 

“On the contrary,” Sherlock says, finally able to let a little excitement peek out. “This isn’t the cell phone that the police have. You saw how they acted about him. No clue he was dead, and definitely not aware of or close to his girlfriend. Of course he has a second cell phone -- he was probably having an affair with one or more of those girls.”

 

“His poor girlfriend…” John shakes his head. “How do you figure he has a separate phone?”

 

“Area code is different than the one where his flat is, and it’s one of the area codes used by pay-as-you-go phones,” Sherlock says. “I’ll confirm with Lestrade, see if they found two phones, although I doubt it, the idiots. This gives us a few more questions -- did he purchase the second phone, or --”

 

“Did someone give it to him,” John says, and Sherlock can see the pieces clicking into place as his face lights up. “If so, that doesn’t look so good for Melanie or her friends. It would follow the theory of the real perpetrator providing the victim with the means, and even a way to privately stay in contact with them --”

 

“Or he’s a serial adulterer with a burner phone,” Sherlock interrupts, although he does believe John is on the money with this one. But Sherlock can’t help himself; he has to tease, now that they’re alone in a taxi, he has to poke and prod at the thing he saw in the bar: “You just don’t like them.”

 

John reacts beautifully, coughing suddenly, turning his head to look out the window, seemingly unsure if he should be scandalized or careless and clumsily falling somewhere in the middle.

 

“Don’t see why I wouldn’t,” he says.

 

“Indeed,” Sherlock murmurs, looking out his own window and watching the city rush by.

 

\--

 

It’s late when they get back to the flat, but not terribly late, so when John announces that he’s ready for bed, Sherlock quirks an eyebrow at him.

 

“What?” says John, approaching irritable.

 

(He hasn’t asked about the hypnosis -- he probably won’t ask, it makes him uncomfortable, it gets him hot, it shocked him, he’s weighing his options, he’s also going to notice if Sherlock doesn’t make it normal by asking --)

 

“Weren’t you impressed?” Sherlock says, feigning indifference.

 

John blinks and stops, then clears his throat, also trying to feign indifference, but not really succeeding. “Oh, with the thing? Yeah, I mean, not a big surprise though; you like manipulating people --”

 

“Not all sociopaths are  _ hypnotists _ , if you’re wondering,” Sherlock says, gently emphasizing the word that John avoided; he’s gratified with a slight wince, as though John’s been struck. He knows that he’s supposedly freakishly observant, but he can’t imagine that any ordinary person onlooking couldn’t see what John was feeling now, plain as day.

 

“Right. I wasn’t. Going to go to bed, now.”

 

Hiding behind annoyance as he heads to the shower, and Sherlock can’t resist, lowering his voice:

 

“And not all hypnotists are as manipulative as I am.”

 

A promise, a threat, so near a flirt; something to make John think and wonder. He scoffs, meant to be a laugh, and shuts the door to the bathroom definitively behind him.

 

Sherlock goes to sit on the sofa, again, and clicks his tongue when he realizes that John has gone to retire before making a pot of tea.

 

So John fetishizes hypnosis, as well, then. That much is painfully obvious. Sherlock isn’t even as much testing him and gathering data now as he is teasing; the pure enjoyment of pushing buttons and making someone dance. And it had happened frightfully quick. Not that Sherlock hasn’t manipulated John before -- he’s not special, or untouchable -- but this sort of witless goading is out of character for him, betrays some sort of interest.

 

He can’t deny that he’s interested, now; of course since his experiments with hypnosis, he’s wanted to find someone who saw the appeal that Sherlock did. The fact that it was John… was almost too good, too close. John trusted him, and he trusted John as much as he’d trust anyone. John’s fierce yearning was palpable at the bar, but it was an unconscious sort of desire; getting what he wanted would change their relationship, their dynamic, and he’s sure that’s part of why John wanted to go to bed so early tonight -- to think.

 

Well, also probably to masturbate, but definitely to think.

 

Sherlock’s mind briefly flutters over the idea of John touching himself, thinking about Sherlock and Sherlock’s hypnotic voice and touch, how that would affect him, how he might never be able to recover from that once he comes, hot and full of shame, and he feels awfully aroused by it.

 

Would he find more satisfaction in hypnotizing a subject who wanted to be a victim? Would that begin to scratch the itch or the surface of his desire for control over another person? And is that enough of a reason to expose his own secret desire for it?

 

Sherlock isn’t sure, but he’s willing to test the waters.

 

\--

 

“No drugs in the autopsy report,” he says cheerfully as John stumbles down the stairs in the morning.

 

“Good morning to you, too,” John grumbles, and Sherlock is pleased to see he’s going to the kitchen to put the kettle on -- he’s been waiting for a cup of tea since yesterday.

 

“It’s not surprising. And Molly says it was a clean shot, as I suspected, gun was put up to the head and fired, no resistance or sign of a struggle.”

 

“Mmm.” John’s eyes are barely open, but he brings two cups of tea over to the table and sits in his housecoat, cradling his cup and inhaling deeply.

 

“Trouble sleeping?” Sherlock says.

 

“Yeah,” mutters John. “Nightmares.”

 

(Lie.)

 

“Well, we’re going back to the bar today,” Sherlock announces. John blinks.

 

“So soon? Is that smart, seeing Melanie and the others again? They’ve probably figured something is up by now.”

 

“They usually arrive in the evenings,” says Sherlock. “If we go when the bar opens in the afternoon, we’ll have some time to scope the place out, and leave before they get there.”

 

John seems to brighten a bit at that. “Alright. What did Lestrade say about the second phone?”

 

Sherlock scoffs. “Only found one, and the girlfriend asserts that she never saw him with another one, either.”

 

“So no gun, no phone, according to her.” He sighs.

 

“I was waiting for you to test a theory,” Sherlock says confidentially, excited to share it. “Figured you might be interested. What do you think will happen when we call this number?”

 

John looks pensive for a moment. “Well, if it still has battery, it’ll ring; I don’t think anyone is stupid enough to pick it up. If it’s dead, it’ll go to voicemail.”

 

“Think, John,” Sherlock presses. “There’s another option.” He dials, and puts his phone on speaker, resting it on the table.

 

John seems to make the connection just as a pre-recorded voice comes through.

 

“ _ The number you have dialed is no longer in service. Please check the number and try again. _ ”

 

“Someone disconnected the service, because they knew he wouldn’t be using the phone anymore.” John looks awed.

 

Sherlock is smiling triumphantly. “That phone was given to him by someone involved in his ‘suicide.’”

 

“Doesn’t that rule out Melanie, then?” John asks. “Why would she give us a number that she knew wasn’t working?”

 

“If she suspected we were investigating, then she might have done just to get us to think she was innocent.” It’s far-fetched, but a possibility.

 

John brings a hand to his face. “What do we know about the other victims?”

 

“Not as much,” Sherlock admits. “They were longer ago and they weren’t being investigated as murder cases until now, so I assume a lot of evidence is missing. Jane Carr, black female, late thirties, worked at a bank. Philip Levett, white male, nearly fifty, unemployed. Both from different parts of London.”

 

“Not a lot of connection there besides location. Do you reckon they all had phones like this?”   
  
“They all had guns,” Sherlock says, by way of explanation. “And I think it’s becoming clear that someone else was providing everything. I suspect the one connection they had was adultery or promiscuity. Levett was married, Carr was in a relationship, and so was Waite… but a second phone wouldn’t have been strange to them if they were used to communicating with lovers in secret.”

 

John pinches the bridge of his nose. “A serial killer targeting varying victims with a penchant for casual sex. Gives them a phone to contact them, then somehow gives them a gun to kill themselves, and they do it.”

 

“I know,” Sherlock says, gleeful. “Isn’t it exciting?”

 

\--

 

The bar seems different during the day, with light filtering in from outside. Much quieter, and even the alleyway beside it seems less suspicious. There are two or three patrons only, and the same bartender is taking a napkin to the empty glasses, wiping away the water spots.

 

Sherlock is glad; he’d rather like to have a chat with him.

 

He nudges John to the bar, who orders the same thing as yesterday, but this time when the bartender looks at Sherlock, he smiles and says, “Nothing for me, today.”

 

The bartender nods and quietly pours John a couple fingers of scotch.

 

“Much quieter in the afternoons,” Sherlock says to the man.

 

“Yeah,” he replies. “It picks up around five.”

 

“Weekends it’s a bit more, I expect?”

 

He nods. “Mostly locals, but some university students make the trip out.”

 

“You work every day?”

 

He feels a gentle kick from John under the bar, and realizes that this feels more like an interrogation, rather than a casual conversation.

 

“My friend and I are in town for the next week,” Sherlock continues quickly. “Wanted to know when we could find you here. He likes your scotch pours.”

 

The man finally cracks a grin at that.

 

“Yeah, I’m here every day,” he says. “Name’s Bill. My brother owns the place.”

 

(Ah, that explains the attention to detail in his clothing. Him and his brother are on good terms, but didn’t used to be, and Bill is reliant on him and dresses to impress.)

 

“Nice to meet you, Bill,” John says. “I’m Henry.”

 

“Alex,” Sherlock follows. “Nice crowd around here for you, Bill? Don’t get into too much trouble?”

 

“We want to make sure we’re not messing around the wrong part of town,” John explains, and makes a very convincing out-of-touch adult while doing it.

 

“Not really,” Bill says. (Shifting eyes -- lie.) “Actually, the girls you were… meeting last night are just about my rowdiest customers.”

 

“You don’t like them,” Sherlock clarifies, and again he feels John kick him, harder this time.

 

But Bill chuckles a bit and shrugs. “They hang out with trouble. Spend a bit of time in the restroom, if you catch my drift.”

 

Doing drugs? Having sex?

 

...Giving out guns and phones?

 

“Not much you can do about that,” Sherlock says, trying to be sympathetic. “Speaking of which, I’ll be right back.”

 

He strides to the back -- men’s and women’s rooms across from each other, and a single gender-neutral handicapped stall. He goes into the men’s and hopes that John knows to distract Bill enough so that he can sneak into the other ones unnoticed, where Melanie and her friends allegedly spent so much time.

 

Scent of cleaning supplies, but still grimy -- old, but frequently cleaned. Urinals and stalls, all functional. No windows and no doors besides the one. Nothing hidden in the tanks of the toilets, but the tops were easy enough to remove -- something could have been left in one in an airtight bag to be dropped off.

 

Sherlock walks into the women’s room next, and sees much of the same. He wishes he would have gone in last night, or better yet could have somehow been there two nights ago, to see if it smelled of sex or if there was a half-finished joint hidden cleverly on top of a stall..

 

Next is the large, single-stalled room, and immediately Sherlock sees what he’d been hoping for -- in the wastebin when he opens it, there’s a plastic baggie among the paper towels, and it’s wet on the outside and dry on the inside, too small for a gun, but big enough for a phone.

 

Jackpot.

 

Sherlock’s eyes scan the room when he comes out, but the customers there before had left, and it was only John and Bill having a nice chat up at the bar.

 

“Well, this was nice, but I have some business I need to attend to, as it turns out,” Sherlock says as he walks briskly up to the bar, with no intention to sit back down. John looks startled.

 

“Oh, erm, alright,” John says, and takes a last sip of his scotch and moves to get up. “Nice to meet you, Bill. See you later?”

 

“I’ll be here,” Bill says with a nod.

 

Sherlock makes a beeline for the door and John has to almost jog to catch up with him.

 

“What did you find?” he asks in a hushed whisper.

 

“Someone picked up a phone from here  _ today, _ ” Sherlock says quietly, “and  _ this  _ is the killer’s hunting grounds.”

 

\--

 

Sherlock is itching with energy through the cab ride; his leg is bouncing on the floor and his fingers drum on the seat. He and John have fallen into silence while John thinks, which normally bothers him, but now it’s just part of the thrill of the case.

 

There are so many questions, but what surprises Sherlock the most is how quickly the wheels have begun to turn on the next victim. Just a day after Waite’s death, someone else has been contacted. The first three deaths were nearly a month apart, very careful and patient for a serial killer -- did this mean that they were getting impatient and sloppy, or was there usually a full month of some sort of grooming before the deed was done?

 

One thing was for certain; the victims were picked out, if not contacted, before the previous one died. So the killer had some sort of list or basket to choose from, whether that was as simple as going through the phone book or something more precise.

 

Finding that, and finding the next victim in line, would be the top priority; they’ll likely return to the bar tomorrow.

 

...Although, the case is only really occupying half of his attention right now.

 

John has just about fully recovered from last night and the prodding afterwards; he’s relaxed visibly and is acting much more comfortably around Sherlock, able to make eye contact and speak without snapping or stuttering.

 

Sherlock finds that incredibly boring, and he knows it’s impulsive and reckless to pursue the drive, but he doesn’t  _ care _ .

 

John pays the cabbie and then they’re back in the flat again, the cups and plates from brunch still left on the table from earlier. He sighs, and begins to tidy up a bit while Sherlock takes a seat, templing his fingers and thinking.

 

He wants the game to last; he wants to draw out the pursuit as long as he can. If Sherlock is going to hypnotize John, he wants it to be as stimulating as possible; he’s not sure when he’ll get a chance like this again.

 

‘If he’s going to hypnotize John’ -- as though he hasn’t settled on it already.

 

Being in the thick of a case is making him feel more brazen and heady, and seeing John’s reactions last night, knowing John couldn’t control himself has completely dissolved Sherlock’s carefully constructed suppression of his own sexuality in this. It had sparked something in him that he needed to see, taste more of, no matter the risk or the cost. He’d spent years convincing himself that he’d never have the thing he wanted, and for some reason, he feels like John can give it to him, or give him something tantalizingly close to it.

 

Mind control: what did that even really mean, anyways? What could he get John to do if he was willing to be unwilling, wanting to be forced? What did Sherlock even really  _ want _ ?

 

He thinks about what John might look like, tranced out, under his control, body hot and flushed and helpless and immobile while his mind is being wiped away methodically by Sherlock’s words --

 

“Sherlock?” John’s voice cuts through his thoughts, and he realizes that John is standing in front of him. “I said, ‘Did you want me to put the kettle on?’”

 

Sherlock looks up at him, and John must see something in his gaze, because his usual expression of friendly comfort and docility is fading, being replaced by something else, slightly widening eyes, parting lips, the fraction of a head tilt downwards, unconsciously protecting the neck.

 

Prey. John looks like prey.

 

“John,” Sherlock murmurs, and he really doesn’t intend it, didn’t intend this, but John responds to his name being said by choking off a sound in his throat and staring dumbly at him, beginning to flush, and Sherlock is struck by a gripping, intense desire.

 

So John has decided, too, then.

 

John swallows. “I --”

 

“Shut up,” Sherlock says suddenly, darkly, and he stands from his seat. “Just shut up. Don’t lie to me. You  _ can’t  _ lie to me.”

 

John’s mouth shuts, but his eyes are pleading. Low heat is thrumming through Sherlock, and he’s not sure if he’d stop even if John asked him to stop right now. He feels charged, mind racing, air thick in his lungs like a drug.

 

“How hard did you come, last night?” he growls, staring John square in the eye, and he doesn’t expect an answer, but he gets the response: an intake of breath, eyes squeezing shut -- trying to escape. He can see so much going over John’s face: shock giving way to understanding, the reluctant knowledge that Sherlock can always see through him, the fear, the desire, the shame.

 

Sherlock takes a single step forward and it gets John’s eyes to open.

 

“Sherlock --” John manages, like one final, desperate protest, and Sherlock lets him have a few moments to talk, but it’s like he can’t think of anything to say.

 

“You know I saw it,” Sherlock says, low and heated. “Saw you. You can’t hide it. You were screaming for it. You want this. You want this more than anything you’ve ever wanted in your whole life.”

 

He’s slipping into the tone, suggestions falling easily from his mouth. He feels drunk on confidence, thudding in his head, and he takes another step forward.

 

John’s fingers are twitching at his sides, classic remnants of the fight-or-flight response.

 

“Don’t move,” Sherlock says, and John freezes, stills even more. His breaths are short, and his pupils are widening, so focused on Sherlock that Sherlock is certain that he’s lost awareness of anything else around him. His face has a deep flush to it, tinting his neck and the tops of his ears.

 

“Is that hypnosis?” Sherlock asks, quietly, taking another step, narrating John’s thoughts. “Are you hypnotized right now? I’ve seen it enough times -- you are,  _ so  _ clearly --  so is this enough, John?”

 

John is trembling, and he looks captivated, mesmerized; scared, but thrilled, all at once.

 

“No, it’s not, is it…” He feels cruel, in such a good way, and he closes the gap between them so he’s standing right before him. “You want what’s in all those pretty pictures and books and stories, the rolling eyes and the loss of control… You want what you saw me do last night at the bar.”

 

John moans, softly, and his head tilts up to look at Sherlock, so much taller than him, exposing his throat.

 

He’s struck silent, but Sherlock hears what his body is saying -- the shaking, the heated skin, the obediently stuck form, the hard line of his cock underneath his trousers.

 

It all feels instinctive; he’s never done this before with someone, not like this, but he’s thought of it so many times through his adolescence. It’s too easy, too natural.

 

“Going to go nice and deep for me?” Sherlock murmurs, bending down to John’s ear, bringing a hand up to his shoulder. John flinches at the touch, and a sound, throaty and needy comes out of his mouth, and Sherlock withdraws just a bit, studying his face, needing to see his reaction, needing to burn it into his mind --

 

He snaps his fingers next to John’s ear.

 

“ _ Sleep. _ ”

 

Sherlock sees it all happen, the self-hatred, the relief, the tight facial muscles losing form, that flutter of eyelids, the gorgeous roll up that John’s eyes are doing, and the pitiful little moan that comes out as he sags in Sherlock’s arms.

 

Sherlock lowers him down to the floor, laying him there as his pulse thunders in his ears and his cock is impossibly hard between his legs.

 

John is a sight, splayed out like this. He looks helpless, and even in trance his brows are slightly furrowed in distress; he knows what’s happening and he’s letting it happen.

 

Attractive, but too much thinking.

 

“How much have you fantasized about exactly this, John?” he whispers, sitting down on the floor next to him, bringing his fingers up to John’s head and idly drawing circles over his forehead. “With anyone. Anyone, taking your mind and playing with it, toying with it, feeling their hands inside your brain,  _ hypnotizing you _ .”

 

John lets out a breath, and his body relaxes further.

 

“You’ve gotten so good at thinking about it, your brain’s done all the work already,” Sherlock continues. “ _ You _ don’t have to do anything. Your mind is so desperate, so hungry for this that there’s nothing you can do but sink and fall, focusing on me and unfocusing on me, here and there.”

 

He’s watching John’s eyes move back and forth under his flickering eyelids. John’s mouth is hanging open, slightly, and Sherlock feels something tight and hot inside his chest while looking at it.

 

“I could tell you that this is  _ relaxing _ , that this is  _ comforting _ , but you don’t want that. You want to know that you look helpless, that you’re at my mercy, that I intend to wipe away those stupid thoughts of yours and have my way with you. I  _ am  _ having my way with you, right now.”

 

John tenses for a moment and gasps, and then visibly sinks further down, surrendering, and it touches something basic and instinctive in Sherlock. He moves without thinking, placing each hand on either side of John’s head on the floor, moving his body on top of him, not touching, just bracing himself on his hands and knees above him. If he lowered himself, he’d surely feel John’s cock touching his, but the temptation of it is even better than the idea of having it.

 

“You can go deeper when you realize that this is sex,” he growls, and John lets out a quiet moan. “You can go so deep when you finally understand that this is better than any physical thing, that this is what you’ve been chasing. It’s impossible to ignore; your body is giving you all the signs that you’re hypnotized, and those signs are like  _ fucking _ .”

 

The words just keep coming out, automatically, and he knows that speaking the truth is one of the most effective ways to hypnotize someone, but they ring in his head and they come from somewhere inside of him, because he feels like after such a long time, he’s finally able to say them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hahahahaAHHA oh god what have I done?
> 
> I hope everyone enjoyed this chapter; I'm very pleased with how everything is coming along so far. We finally get something of a release between the boys, but needless to say, this is just the beginning.
> 
> Again, please let me know if you have any comments or questions! Comments are food for authors! Om nom nom!


	3. Chapter 3

Time is a strange beast when hypnosis is involved, not only for the subject, but also for the hypnotist, and Sherlock loses track of everything, whispering heatedly to John, nearly automatically, shifting positions around John’s prone body, never touching him, just getting closer and closer.

 

John looks utterly erotic, a thin line of white showing under his fluttering eyelids, breath coming in soft gasps, exhaling sometimes in little moans as though he can’t control his voice.

 

Not ‘as though’, Sherlock feels, absurdly, desperately; he can’t. He  _ can’t  _ control his voice. John is somewhere far away and gone, and his body is just a collection of reactions and responses that Sherlock is playing with. It feels masturbatory, somehow -- Sherlock is always observing and manipulating, but this feels more personal and private and self-indulgent.

 

He doesn’t even really think about what he’s saying anymore, he’s just speaking, talking John deeper, talking himself higher. There’s no need to do the performative hypnosis that he’s done with others -- no need for sticking hands or forgetting names or changing accents. This is raw and sexual, although he hasn’t said anything directly about John’s obviously hard cock, he talks around it, wondering if John will come in his trousers, wondering if it’s becoming painful, wondering if John is even really noticing.

 

The feeling of having someone so enspelled -- so clearly taken from being a functioning person to a helpless, reactive body -- is unbearably intoxicating, and he’s aware that his own prick is hard up as well. He doesn’t masturbate very often, but in the haze that covers both of them, he’s itching to rub his hand over it, to relieve some of the tension coiling tight inside of him.

 

Stronger than that urge is the desire for this to happen again, to happen more intensely, and he knows that he has to be careful not to spook John too much; fascinating, obnoxious, womanizing John.

 

John, with a desperate fetish for hypnotic control.

 

“You’re learning so much,” he murmurs, close to John’s ear. “You’re learning so much about hypnosis and about yourself that it’s overwhelming, that there’s too much to think about all at once right now. You can feel it like a weight in your head, taking up space, too heavy to properly think about, but pushing everything else out. The act of learning something creates physical, chemical changes in the brain and body, and here, right now, like this, you can  _ feel  _ it more than you can think about it -- the sensations of learning how to go deep into trance for me are the most enthralling thing, the most erotic thing.”

 

John moans, and his hips shift slightly upwards; Sherlock can tell it’s all the strength his body has to even move that much.

 

“It feels so good to be this weak,” he says, and John whimpers softly. “You’ve been sapped of everything; I’ve taken all of it away -- so difficult to move, so difficult to think proficiently. I’ve hypnotized away the difficult things. Now it’s just easy to be weak; easy to let me hypnotize you.”

 

John’s lips are twitching and Sherlock watches it happen in awe -- somehow, some part of John wants to say something.

 

“You know that I can see that your body is responding automatically,” Sherlock continues. “It would be so easy to think about that as control being exerted over you, making your mind sleep deep down while the rest of you just carries on. If your body wants to talk, if some part of you wants to talk, it happens without resistance -- it’s a function of that control.”

 

Another soft sound, and John’s tongue comes out to wet his lips. Sherlock gives him a moment, and he’s rewarded.

 

“... _ Please _ ,” John groans, finally. “Please... Please.”

 

Sherlock’s cock throbs. John’s simple words; John’s hypnotized voice.

 

“What are you asking for?” he says softly.

 

John takes a breath and it comes out sounding nearly like a sob, exhausted and cracking.

 

“I don’t know,” he whispers, and it’s slow and quiet and high.

 

(He wants relief, he wants release, he wants more, he wants to stop, he wants to never stop.)

 

“It’s fine to not know,” Sherlock says, “It’s fine to just be overwhelmed and overtaken -- that’s what you  _ want _ . The realization is profound in your mind, as dulled as you are, it’s so striking… You want control taken from you. You want to be hypnotized out of your mind. And it’s happening; you can’t even think for yourself.”

 

Shallow, excited breathing, as though he’s close to breaking.

 

“Tell me how your body feels,” Sherlock whispers, and he feels caught in this too, entranced as well by John’s helplessness. John’s words are so soft and small, long pauses dragging between them.

 

“Light... Heavy... Far away... Not mine... Hot...” His next breath comes out ragged. “Controlled.  _ Controlled. _ Controlled, controlled, controlled…”

 

A sound catches in Sherlock’s throat as John repeats it, keeps repeating it as though he’s stuck on it, and even in trance he sounds like he’s in disbelief, like it’s traumatic, like it’s amazing.

 

“ _ Yes _ ,” Sherlock hisses, and John gasps and falls silent again, as though he’s been defeated, and Sherlock feels like he doesn’t need to speak, just that he needs to watch.

 

He lets himself have a moment in the stillness to look over John’s body one more time. The crooked clothes, the complete bonelessness of his form, the glazed-over expression, the lidded eyes, the obscenely hard cock that tents his trousers, the small wet spot forming because his prick is  _ leaking _ .

 

“John,” Sherlock says quietly, and the sound that John makes nearly makes him second-guess himself and keep him like this forever, “I’m going to count you up in a moment, but it’s really just a sign to you that you can come up as you like, on your own time. You’ve learned so much, and all of those things that you’ve learned -- about trance, about how good this is, about yourself, about me -- can fit neatly in your head, something to keep as a memory, as something to mull over at the right time.”

 

John sighs out a breath, and Sherlock gives him a moment to process, slowing down from the heated pace earlier.

 

“One, two, three.” He snaps his fingers, and then falls silent to watch the process of John waking.

 

A deep breath in, eyes squeezing shut, the shifting of shoulders and arms, a little stretch, hands brought up to his face, covering it and staying there.

 

His cock is still hard.

 

“Oh, God,” John mumbles through his hands. Sherlock can see the flush on his face  through his fingers, deeper red now that he’s awake. He’s out of hypnosis, Sherlock’s ended it, but everything still feels ethereal, watching John tenderly trying to rouse himself, taking stock of his own body, realizing what they’ve just done.

 

Sherlock watches it all so intensely, just as intensely as he’d observe anything, watching as John thinks to move his hands from his eyes but decides not to, several times, and the shift of his hips as though he wants to hide his erection.

 

“You…” John breathes finally, peeling his hands from his face but keeping his eyes shut tight. “You…”

 

He’s so overwhelmed, and it’s delightful, but Sherlock is dreading when John does open his eyes and sees him as vulnerable as he is. He hates the feeling and it’s always gone along with hypnosis for him, but he’s never been with someone with whom the vulnerability is shared. Sex is weakness; desire is weakness, and at the very least he’s consoled that John feels that defenselessness as he does.

 

“You’re bloody quiet for someone who was just talking my ears off,” John manages, and cracks his eyes open to look at him. It’s a little slurred -- John is still addled a bit from all the trance, and probably will be for a bit, considering how much they’ve done.

 

Sherlock meets his gaze for a moment, then draws his knees in and inspects his fingernails. “Just observing.”

 

John laughs weakly, and it’s tinged with exasperation.

 

“What did you  _ deduce _ , then, Sherlock?”

 

“That we both were finally able to have a long-awaited experience.” Hiding behind his knees, he flicks his eyes back up to John, whose eyebrows have lifted.

 

“So you --”

 

“Yes,” Sherlock says, cutting him off. With the heat of trance fading between them, this is almost uncomfortably intimate with the two of them on the floor, post-coital, as it is.

 

John is quiet. He draws himself up onto his elbows.

 

“When did you know it?” John asks softly, and it’s a very John question, and in very John fashion, he feels the need to elaborate. “That you… Liked it. When I was younger, I saw a Doctor Who episode…”

 

“Sarah Jane?” Sherlock asks, noncommittal.

 

“Yeah,” John says, surprised.

 

“Fairly common one.”

 

John snorts. “Of course, being so ordinary. So?”

 

Sherlock fidgets with his fingers. “‘A Wrinkle in Time’. I was five.”

 

“Someone read ‘A Wrinkle in Time’ to you when you were five?” John looks scandalized. 

 

“Of course not; I read it myself.”

 

John gives a little disbelieving laugh. “Right. Genius. Keep forgetting.”

 

Sherlock finally lets the corner of his mouth turn up. “Best not to do that.”

 

John looks at him and beams a little uncharacteristically, the tension of the moment melting, then lays back down on the floor, staring at the ceiling.

 

“You… It’s… You’re different,” he says, and it’s the voice of a man in awe, blown away by something. “That was like nothing I’ve ever done. That was like magic.”

 

“You’ve been hypnotized before?” Sherlock asks, genuinely surprised, and feeling an unwelcome touch of unpleasantness.

 

John flushes at the question and hesitates. “I mean… there are those audio recordings online…”

 

Sherlock wrinkles his nose, but he feels a bizarre sort of relief. “Oh, those are rubbish. Idiots reading off of a bad script. That’s not hypnosis; that’s fundamental misunderstanding of the thing.”

 

Instead of arguing, John just smiles an easy smile; perhaps he’s still out of it a bit and fractionated, or perhaps it’s a fondness he’s only seen glimpses of.

 

“Yeah,” John says. “You’re bloody brilliant.”

 

And despite his discomfort, despite the bit of distaste bubbling in his stomach at the whole foolish situation, Sherlock can’t help but feel a rush at that genuine, simple praise.

 

\--

 

They sit on the floor for a few minutes more; John is in no rush to get up and remarks that he feels a bit drunk, correctly deducing that it's from the hypnosis (although he continues to avoid the word). 

 

“It happens in some situations,” Sherlock says, and John nods. 

 

“It's not unpleasant. Feels like at this point I could snap up if I wanted. Sort of just feels nice.”

 

Sherlock hums, interested; he's read countless accounts of hypnosis, but it's another thing entirely to talk to a subject about how they're feeling in the moment. Intellectually, it's fascinating, which is easier than admitting that it's also a bit hot to see John so loose, in its own way. 

 

“Could really go for a cuppa,” John says wistfully. “Don't really want to make one, though. Is this how you feel all the time?” 

 

Sherlock snorts. “I must admit, I didn't account for the inane babble afterwards.” It's a lie, but it's the best he can do to banter with John -- there are a thousand things that are hanging in the air unsaid, and he doesn't fancy having the conversations. John seems content to let them be for a bit, no deep, relationship-altering talks or crisis of sexuality. 

 

“I guess you'll finally have to learn how to make a pot, if --” John stops abruptly, realizing the implications of his freely-spoken words. 

 

…John wants to do it again. Sherlock feels a clench in his chest. 

 

“Of course I know how to make tea,” Sherlock says. “I  _ am  _ English. And a  _ genius _ , as you're so fond of calling me.”

 

John clears his throat. “Come on, then. I'm rather comfortable down here and I'd love some genius tea.”

 

Sherlock smiles wryly but unfolds himself from the floor and moves to the kitchen, turning on the kettle and opening the cupboards to find a couple of teacups. 

 

John follows him, despite his earlier protesting, and sits in one of the kitchen chairs, watching him.

 

“How'd you learn it?” 

 

“By observing.” Sherlock places a teabag in each cup and keeps his eye on the kettle, which is threatening to whistle. “Books, videos. People. There are a few people who are very good. Mostly they were trained in something besides hypnosis. Magicians, therapists, et cetera.”

 

John nods, then sort of fiddles with his hands and looks down at them. “You seem rather experienced.”

 

Oh, John. 

 

“I practiced at bars in my twenties. It was incredibly dull. Never met another person who was… Really, interested.” Sherlock pours the water into the cups, watching it deepen in color. He hands one to John, who looks like he's trying to hide how pleased he is as he takes it, gingerly. 

 

“Could have fooled me.”

 

It's a little bizarre how close they are to talking about the actual thing without really talking about it. Sherlock sits down across from John and holds the hot cup in his hands. He feels like he’s waiting for the atmosphere to break, he has been ever since he woke John up, but it’s not happening; mostly, it all just feels very domestic, and Sherlock is the one on edge.

 

“Thank you,” John says, but his tone is quiet, and his eyes are cast down, and Sherlock suspects he’s not talking about the tea.

 

Sherlock doesn’t really know how to respond to it.

 

“It’s not…” Sherlock gestures, searching for the right words. “It wasn’t a gift. It wasn’t a handout.”

 

“I -- okay.” John looks up at him and his face is flushed lightly, attractively. “I just -- I’d be open to… doing that again. Or, more of it, or different… Whatever you... ” He trails off, but to his credit, he keeps his gaze fixed on Sherlock, despite his obvious discomfort.

 

_ ‘Whatever you want.’ _

 

Sherlock feels a surge of something, power, echoes of it thrumming through him. He looks at John, sitting there, determined to hold his ground, and he feels suddenly the weight of what he could do to him, knock him off kilter, snap and watch him flop over with a needy moan, tea forgotten. He could have made John make the tea after everything, moving wordlessly like an automaton. He could push boundaries, push the already compromised idea of his heterosexuality.

 

“Okay,” he says instead.

 

John sucks in a breath and wets his lips.

 

“Okay,” John says back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this chapter is a little bit shorter, but I really wanted to get this out there -- some good smut, and quiet development between the guys afterwards. We'll return to the murder mystery shortly -- for now, just enjoy this time, as they are. :)
> 
> As always, please leave a comment if you enjoyed this or if you have any questions! I love hearing from you guys!
> 
> (My 18+ tumblr is h-sleepingirl.tumblr.com and my 18+ erotic hypnosis podcast is at twohypchicks.simplecast.fm)


	4. Chapter 4

As much as they each wanted to try to get back to normal, to get back onto the case, to get back to their lives, it was as though a strange heat hung in the flat, as though it was a space out of time.

 

The tea sits finished, and John clears the cups and kettle while Sherlock watches from the sitting room. This is so terribly interesting, so distracting. John seems meek, somehow, as though their experience had shaken him, which Sherlock knows it did.

 

They chat as usual, even get into a rousing discussion on theorizing about their mysterious suicide-assistant, but Sherlock keeps having these mischievous impulses to see John deep under his control once more. John, bizarrely, despite his irritating tendency towards being unobservant, seems to know exactly when Sherlock entertains such a thought, flushing and casting his eyes downwards. To his vexation, it only makes him want to do it more.

 

“So…” John says, finally, in a stretch of quiet.

 

“This is absurd,” Sherlock says, cutting him off. “I am too distracted.”

 

“ _ You  _ are?” John says, suspicious. “But I --”

 

“Yes,” he snaps. “Yes, I can see it  _ plainly _ on you. Your -- your insatiability… Your bloody desires. You are too loud.”

 

John looks crestfallen. “I’m sorry,” he says quietly, and Sherlock waves his hands, dismissively, growing annoyed.

 

“No,” he says. “No, you are missing the point, John. I am compromised by this, by my own damned -- by my  _ reactions _ \-- I feel like I want to do nothing else --”

 

“I --” John swallows, and his little bravery of speech is terribly endearing. “I do, too. I mean, you must see it --”

 

“What do you want me to say, John?” Sherlock says, exasperated, throwing his hands up. “That you are a  _ slut  _ for this, and it awakens my male desires? That your  _ need  _ for this -- yes, you need it, don’t you? -- Your need for it is so blatantly erotic that I can’t control myself? Yes, we shall stay in the flat all day because my  _ cock _ tells me that I must see you in trance until there is nothing left of you --”

 

He’s gotten louder, and stops suddenly in frustration of John’s face, flushed with embarrassment, pained with arousal and desire, and the small bloody signs of trance -- he’s going into fucking trance listening to him --

 

Sherlock is so, so hard.

 

Damn it all.

 

“Oh, you want it so badly,” Sherlock whispers, voice growing dark, walking towards him, echoes of earlier. “Oh, John.”

 

“Sherlock,” he whispers, and it’s beautifully pitiful.

 

“You  _ are  _ a slut for it, aren’t you,” he says, softly, bringing a hand to cup John’s face. John looks like he might melt into the touch, his eyelids trembling slightly, entranced already just by his intent. “You feel like you can’t help yourself, can’t control yourself... That’s dangerous,” he adds, not to warn, but to entice, and John moans quietly at the implication.

 

Absently, he drags the pad of his thumb over John’s cheek and marvels at how that simple touch makes John’s eyes roll a little before trying to refocus on him, and he thinks a thousand thoughts of how he can watch John come undone by just touching his face. Sherlock could be lost in it, lost in the eroticism of his expressiveness, burning it into his mind so he could take advantage of the memory later, alone in his room.

 

“Perhaps we have not yet done enough of this today,” he murmurs, and it’s a thin lie, made to justify getting trapped once more; Sherlock knows that he’s was being irresponsible, that it may never be enough, but perhaps they can at least tire themselves out.

 

John’s lips twitch and his throat works, probably intent on saying something like  _ ‘Please,’ _ in that ridiculous voice, and Sherlock just wants to shut him up, and so he sways John’s body back and forth just subtly, watching him fuzz out, before pressing his thumb square to his forehead and soaking in the sight of John’s eyes finally rolling up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A friend requested a continuation of this story for a 500 word prompt, and I was just all to happy to oblige. This is a direct sequel, and an excuse for a bit more fun (this sort of "oh shit we can't stop doing the thing because it's too hot" is WAY TOO REAL). I'm sorry that I haven't updated this in so long; I really would like to return to it at some point, but we will see what my brain comes up with. Still on semi-hiatus, but I hope you've all enjoyed this naughty interlude :) Thank you all for the lovely feedback you've given me so far! I really appreciate it!
> 
> Feel free to follow my 18+ Tumblr at h-sleepingirl.tumblr.com


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